Should I Fall From Grace
by CitronPresse
Summary: Mark convinces himself he has doubts about his relationship with Lexie and acts on them. One shot. Pairing: Mark/Lexie


_I__ won't deny the pain  
I won't deny the change  
And should I fall from grace here with you  
Will you leave me too?_

_**Galapagos**_, Smashing Pumpkins

* * *

One morning, something shifts.

It's around 4 am and Mark can't sleep. Lexie's lying on her stomach, not quite against his side, her face buried in the pillow and lost in a dream. She murmurs something soft, then puts out a hand and feels for him.

She always seeks him out in sleep. It's an instinct.

Until this morning, it charmed him. Now it grates on his nerves.

* * *

". . . and Dr. Webber's doing a laparoscopic nephropexy today and Dr. Yang's scrubbing in and I listed all the symptoms of nephroptosis correctly." She pauses for emphasis. "So I get to scrub in too!"

He can hear the smile in her voice. Usually that would be enough to make him smile too. But this morning, he's unaffected. Even a little irritated. For the first time since she's been in his life, he gets why Callie rolls her eyes when Lexie starts to talk.

"How 'bout that," he says expressionlessly, as close to a grunt as more than one syllable can be. He holds the MRI of the cleft palate he has to repair today up to the light, turning his back on her.

"Colicky flank pain. Nausea. Chills. Hermaturia. Hyper --" She breaks off. Two seconds later, she's inserted herself between his body and the film in his hand.

He raises an eyebrow. Her eyes are wide, concerned she's done the wrong thing. Usually that makes him want to kiss her. Today, he just feels a hundred years older than her and not in a way that puts _him_ in the weaker position.

"I forgot. You have a palatoplasty scheduled." She pauses. "Did you . . . did you want me to scrub in on that?"

He coughs. It's the same cough that prefaced his answers when Addison accused him of cheating. But Lexie's never heard it before and she doesn't know that. "Do the nephropexy," he says. "I don't need an intern."

He doesn't say _I don't need __**you**_, but the thought prickles in his mind until he gives her a quick, distracted kiss (on the cheek) goodbye.

* * *

"You're very efficient, uh . . . ?" His voice is a deep, sleazy purr. His eyes crinkle in a smile -- lazy but intense -- over the top of his surgical mask.

"Claudia, Dr. Sloan" the new blonde scrub nurse says. She actually bats her eyelashes. Atta girl!

"Claudia," he drawls softly, turning the name over on his tongue. He'll forget it in a few hours, but for now he savors its novelty.

A possible complication absorbs his attention for a moment. But it's fine; a false alarm. He glances up and his eyes smirk into hers before returning to his work. "I'll bet you're efficient at all kinds of things," he baits her, glancing up again to gauge her reaction.

She giggles, then looks at him from under her eyelashes, before scanning the OR nervously to see if anyone noticed.

She's hooked.

An hour later, they're in an on-call room and Claudia's stripping off her scrub top.

For a split second, he thinks of Lexie. With a little willpower, it passes. He's used to her, that's all.

He pulls off his own scrub top and throws it decisively on the floor, grinning as Claudia's greedy baby-blue eyes scan his pecs and abs.

"See something you like?" The purr's still there, but it's bled dry of any sign of life (or even lust) and, for another split second, the barren sound of his own voice shakes his certainty.

Whatever. Screw it.

He backs her into the locked door and pushes his tongue inside her open, receptive mouth.

* * *

"It's fine," she says. "It happens to a lot of guys." She gathers her clothes and pulls them on. "Maybe some other time."

He barely hears her. As she leaves, he turns on his side on the bunk and stares sightlessly at the wall.

* * *

"You know, far be it from me to say it might never happen. Because it kind of always does. At least to me." Callie sits down on the barstool next to him. "But you think you could maybe cheer up anyway?"

He sips his bourbon. It's a new thing. He doesn't like it as much as scotch, but it has the advantage of not being Derek's drink. A week ago he was determined to acquire the taste. Picking his own drink seemed to matter when he had someone to enjoy the independence with. Now it just seems petty and he wonders why he ordered bourbon this evening.

Nothing changes. Why should he fight what's preordained? He'll make his next drink a scotch. A really fucking big one.

"I cheated on Lexie," he mutters, his chin huddled so deeply into his chest that the words are staunched. Okay, it's not quite accurate, but it damned near is and he doesn't want the credit that adding _almost_ would afford him.

"You --?" Callie clucks her tongue. "Jesus, Mark!" She waves Joe over. "Usual, please," she says, "and whatever he's having."

"Scotch," he growls.

"He'll have bourbon."

He turns his head sideways and looks at her through narrowed eyes. "I want --"

Joe puts two glasses down in front of him: a double scotch and a double bourbon.

Callie laughs. "Aw, Joe," she says. "You mean you actually listened when he gave that speech about being his own man?"

"It's my job," Joe says, winking and walks away to serve another customer.

Mark ignores the two fresh drinks in front of him, and takes a tiny sip of what's left of the bourbon he's already drinking, determined to make it last.

"So . . . why?" Callie asks.

"It's what I do." He's resigned. Resignation is easier to take than despair.

"O-kay," she says, drawing out the small, mundane word into something infinitely meaningful and blatantly unconvinced. "But . . . " She eyes him, then starts to blurt. "Why the hell would you do such a stupid, fucked-up thing? To _Lexie_? 'Cause it's _not_ 'what you do.' Not to her. You're not even _you_ when you're with her. Not _that_ you." She pauses just long enough to breathe. "Lexie's Denver! She's fantastic . . . exquisite, remember? She's Little Grey! The sex is mind-blowing. She strokes your hair; you feed her popcorn; you go to sleep holding her."

"Shut up, Torres." He can't bear this; not after what he's done. "Why the hell I told you all that crap, I'll never know."

She fiddles with her shot glass. "Because you didn't think it was crap," she says softly. "And judging by your sorry ass state right now, you still don't."

He drains the last of the original bourbon and sets the glass heavily down on the bar. "Why do you care?" he asks. "You hate Lexie."

"I don't _hate_ her, Mark," she protests. "What am I? Five?" She rolls her eyes. "I mean, okay . . . she talks a lot. Like a _lot_. Until your brain freezes and you can't think --" She stops herself and clears her throat. "But I most certainly don't hate her and even if I did, what would it matter? It's not me that's sleeping with her. It's not me who's in --"

"Don't," he warns. The last thing he wants to hear about is love.

"Well, you _are_," she persists. "And, what's more, she makes you happy."

He groans out loud, dropping his head into his hands. There are layers and layers of denial between him and comprehension, but Callie's words form a shard of clarity that pierces through the self-protection.

Lexie makes him happy. That's the whole problem.

"You're such an ass," Callie scoffs, but follows it with a quick, gentle hand on his arm. "Drink your bourbon and go home to your girlfriend."

He half looks up and reaches for the scotch. But some time or another old habits have to die (before they kill you), and he pushes the glass away and turns back to the bourbon.

* * *

Lexie's sitting on his couch, legs tucked up comfortably, eating a hamburger in front of the TV.

"Hey!" she says through a mouthful of food, then covers her mouth with her hand and swallows, smiling the whole time with her eyes.

"Hey," he mumbles and glances down. He hesitates by the door for a moment before shrugging out of his leather jacket. Then he walks slowly to the couch and sits down next to her.

She holds out the burger. "You want a bite?" she asks.

If the delusion of indifference hadn't already shattered, it would have exploded in his face with this simple act. How the hell did he ever convince himself she bored him?

He shakes his head. "I ate," he lies and, buying time before his admission of guilt, adds, "How'd the nephropexy go?"

"Awesome!" She smiles at him broadly. She is, truly, as Callie reminded him, exquisite. "Then we had skills lab and I did a laryngectomy." The smile becomes intimate, conspiratorial. "I kicked ass," she says. "So next time you do one, you should totally pick me to be your intern."

He doesn't reply, except maybe a nod that's barely discernible, and her face falls a little, sensing something has changed. "If you want to." She puts her plate down on the coffee table, preparing herself. "It's totally your decision. I would never –"

"I cheated on you," he breaks in roughly.

She takes a sharp breath, then clicks off the remote. The room is submersed in silence as her eyes fix on his.

"Are we . . .?" Her voice shakes. She swallows to steady it. "Are we over?"

"You're not going to yell?" he asks stupidly, almost wishing she would. He's used to yelling; maybe a little shoe throwing. But that's not Lexie: even now she's clear and sweet and relentlessly honest.

"Would it make a difference?" she asks, lifting her chin.

Desperate to claw his way back, he allows himself the _almost_ he couldn't acknowledge to Callie, the _almost_ he hopes will get him another chance.

"That is, I _tried_ to cheat." He gives a lopsided, inappropriate grin; he's floundering here, way out of his depth and he has to find some way to communicate. "It didn't work out too well."

For a moment, she's puzzled. Then her eyes widen, resentful and surprised at the same time. "Erectile dysfunction?" She swallows. "You mean the only reason you're here now is because you . . . you couldn't get it up?"

He looks down. He can't meet her eyes. "She wasn't you," he says.

The words are inadequate. The moment he touched the nurse, his body screamed for Lexie. It was only ever his mind that got in the way.

"Then why?" Her voice is brave. She's trying to sound cold, but she can't quite manage it.

He tries to take her hand, but she snatches it away. Then on impulse, an act of spontaneous shame, he kneels down in front of her, head bowed.

He's begging. He can change, but it's only worth it if it's with her. So he dredges inside, where adulthood never touched, and hopes like hell she'll understand his answer.

"If you hate me now," he says, "it'll hurt less than when you hate me later."

Risking everything, he slowly moves closer to her and lays his head in her lap. She's quite still, holding her breath. She doesn't touch him. But she doesn't push him away.

After what seems like an eternity, he feels her fingers tangle in his hair.


End file.
